


Convalescence

by lubbydub



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angry Sex?, Blood, F/M, Needles, Stitches, but i am not a good writer, riparooni, so it didn't come out the way i wanted, thank god you're alive sex, this is supposed to be
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-06
Updated: 2019-10-06
Packaged: 2020-11-26 01:01:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20921579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lubbydub/pseuds/lubbydub
Summary: Moira tends to Project Sigma after a close encounter out on the field.





	Convalescence

As far as the rest of Talon is concerned, Moira O'Deorain stalking briskly through the halls to the medbay with Subject Sigma in tow is no unusual sight. It isn't even entirely odd that they be covered in gore and the marks of combat when they do; they're active enough on the field.

It's the sheer _ fury _ burning in her mismatched eyes, undamped by the blood pouring down a gash on her forehead, that makes people scatter from her path, today.

To Moira, Sigma is nowhere near the realm of alright. She can hear his unsteady gait, symptomatic of a limp. His breathing comes short, and his eyes unfocus-- more than they do when his _ wretched _ melody takes him. As soon she finds an empty exam room, she chases out the medics inside with a sharp bark and starts rummaging through the cabinets and drawers. Sutures and gauze are laid out on the surgical trolley beside the examination table, and she looks to him with a sharp thumbnail flicking off the cap of a bottle of disinfectant.

"Well?" she asks-- demands, looking him up and down with. Sigma blinks, watching her woodenly like the rest of the stupid sods in this base. "Kit off. Now. And get your arse on the table. Really, it's not as though you've hit your bloody head, have you?"

As she turns back, threading her needle with a practiced hand, she hears the great ox start to uncouple the belts and buckles holding his armor in place. She cleans her wound efficiently and quickly, blood-soaked gauze pads disposed of as soon as they can absorb no more. Then, she clenches her jaw as she pierces her skin with the needle, over and over as she sews the gash shut and cuts the sutures off. Stitching herself up isn't new to her; she's been doing it even before her field career with Blackwatch. But her hands shake, and she curses herself under her breath when her haste makes her slip. Moira doesn't know why she's rushing. Nothing good has ever come of it.

By the time she ties off the last suture and turns back to Sigma, he's down to his left pauldron-- it seems as though he's dislocated a shoulder, or broken a collarbone, and it's paining him greatly to even move. Moira growls low in her throat, storming up to him where he sits on the table and undoing it for him. His blood drips onto her hands, and she shakes it off with a snarl.

"You're a great bloody moron, do you know that? I've never met someone so intelligent and so brain-fucking-dead at the same time. What in God's good name were you thinking? If Reyes hadn't been there, you'd be--"

"I'm _ well aware_, Dr. O'Deorain," he says, impudently cutting her off. Moira's angry gaze snaps up to his, her lip drawing between her teeth. _ A warning_. Sigma has the gall to look just as irritated with her. His long arm reaches to pull the trolley over to him, and she scoffs, slapping his hand away. "I can handle--"

"No, you cannot. Just as you _ cannot _ handle four Overwatch agents bearing down on you at once without the good fortune of Reyes being present at the right time, you cannot dress your own wounds. Do me a favour and try not to insult my abilities with your glorified first-aid training," she snaps, dropping the metal to the floor with a loud, final clang and pushing him back with a hand planted firmly on his chest. She grasps beside her for the scissors, and glides the blades through the bodysuit, making sure to rip the fabric off his dried blood in a way that hurts, but doesn't reopen the clots.

Moira rinses her mouth roughly with the disinfectant before clutching the needle between her teeth, pressing gauze to a bullet wound sustained through the gaps of his plates. The bastard doesn't even flinch, and she hates it. She hates the way he simply leans back on his elbows while she plucks the lead from his flesh and stitches him shut, as if it were a minor inconvenience and not a narrow miss of his vitals. She hates how he thinks he's immortal, that he can just go out there and _ die _ without her permission and embarrass her in front of the Talon board with yet another failed project--

"It wouldn't be more humiliating than getting yourself sliced apart because you weren't looking, Doctor."

"Quiet!" she shouts, realising she's been thinking aloud, "I can handle myself. I've been handling myself since before you came along. I don't need you to fuss and worry over me when _ you're barely held together on your best days!_"

Out of spite, she stabs him with the needle and he finally hisses, bucking away from her. She looks up, then, her defiance matching his as he breathes hard through his nose.

"I didn't want you to get hurt," he admits simply, and it hits her with the force of a bullet.

"I don't care what you want, Siebren."

It's a reflexive retort, and her hands shake again as she ties the stitch. _ Damn, damn, damn. _ He sits back up to his full height, and her palm presses against his chest to push him back, she isn't done--

"Moira."

His large, warm hand covers hers where it lays, and she forces herself not to blank out and zero in on the feeling, to study the rest of his injuries and see what she can fix, instead.

"I didn't want you to get hurt," Siebren repeats, softly, gently. "It's the least I can do for the brilliant mind that saved me."

She can't look at him again.

"The least you can do for me is to _ stay alive_. You are mine, and I will not suffer you to run off and do whatever you _ please _."

He huffs a laugh, at that.

"_Yours? _ Do you label all your experiments that way?"

A sudden anger surges from her chest, at his ridiculous smile and the soft warmth of his palm that burns the back of her hand, and Moira lets it course through her. It takes her hand out from under his and knuckles him, _ hard _ , right where she knows he’s broken a rib. Now, _ now _ he feels it, his eyes fluttering as he jerks his body away from her and his back hits the table. She ignores the way his ragged gasp tears through him and her both, and she clambers up to kneel over him.

Sigma laughs breathlessly, resting his hands boldly on her knees. Moira twitches.

“You-- You are so--”

_ He’s starting to babble _, she thinks, and she turns her focus back to his hurts. She bends at the waist to patch up a weeping gash across his abdominals, a deep cut from Shimada’s blade, no doubt.

“_You are so full of shit._”

Her mouth hangs open, at this flagrant display of insolence. For a good few seconds, she has no retort for him, looking up yet again to glare at him, her furious gaze tempered by shock. Sigma’s gloved fingers trace over her wound, over the tender flesh of her cheek-- _ when had she gotten hurt there?-- _and the split in her bottom lip. His attention lingers on the last.

“I am yours, Doctor? Then why do I have to watch you throw yourself into the fray, into situations _ neither _ of us can handle alone? Why don’t you let me by your side when you need me?” he asks, calm, but desperate. Moira’s hand flies to grip his, digging her sharply manicured nails into his skin as she pulls his warm palm away from her cheek.

But she doesn’t. She can’t find it in her to move from where they are now.

“Don’t presume, _ Sigma. _ I am not yours, nor will I ever be,” she hisses, spitting out _ yours _ with greater effort and less derision than she expects. Damn this man; _ God damn him. _ But he doesn’t have her yet.

When he smiles, it holds no mockery or teasing, only pure admiration that reaches even his lilac eyes.

“If that were true, we wouldn’t be here.”

It suddenly hits her how ridiculous this all is-- That she’s straddling his strong hips with her chin in his palm and his chest bared to her, and that he’s somehow got it into his head that this is because she _ fancies _ him in some way. Moira sets out to prove him wrong, fisting her hands in the scraps of fabric at his collarbone and hauling him up to spit her rejection in his face.

The second he’s sitting up, she peers into his _ patient, smug, admiring, insolent _ eyes and parts her lips to--

When she kisses him, he tastes sweet, almost. Siebren’s hand slides around to the back of her head, his long fingers threading through her hair, and his other one rests perfectly on the curve of her hip like it belongs there. Their teeth knock together and her lip burns, but nothing has ever felt quite so _ right. _

Distantly, she thinks that _ of course it does; he is hers, after all. _

Possessiveness swells in her chest, leading her hands to cup his jaw, pulling him yet closer. She means to devour him, to wrest back her control and show him why she cannot _ belong _ to anyone, let alone him. Siebren mumbles her name reverently against her lips when they part for a quick breath, his large, warm palms smoothing over her back and lower still. Moira can’t stop the hitch in her breath nor the wave of tingles over her scalp-- it’s her good fortune that she manages not to shiver, lest his ego inflate that bit more.

As his fingers curl around the backs of her thighs, she feels a heat spike through the floor of her stomach, forcing a needy sound from her throat. She needs to feel his skin, now, and her carbon-fiber bodice has too many damned buckles and clasps--

Siebren grinds his palm into the apex of her thighs and sucks a kiss below her ear. The groan she lets out is both shameless and frustrated; she needs to think, to figure out where to begin undressing, and this _ irritating _ man is distracting her. His broad hands cup her rear and force her closer, his lips capturing hers again in a too-hot kiss. She swears she can feel his heartbeat thrumming in his chest through her armor, but she knows she can’t-- it’s _ insane _.

“Siebren. _ Siebren_, stop. I need to-- _ my equipment-- _ ” she gasps, fighting him back. He won’t let her think-- _ God, _ why won’t he just let her _ think? _ Moira feels a deep chuckle, and the flex of his smile against the hollow of her throat. She flushes deeply, her cheeks burning like she burns _ down there_, and she grabs his jaw with one hand, willing herself to look angry.

In the back of her mind, she’s sure she looks petulant instead. The other hand starts to release one of the clasps holding her biotic tank to her back plating. Siebren mirrors her on her opposite side, helping her lift it gently to the floor with his abilities. More of her armor comes undone, stacking neatly beside where he left her tank, and it should feel cold and clinical. Methodical.

It feels like he’s peeling her open.

He-- _ they _ strip her down to the nanofiber mesh that forms the innermost layer of her combat gear, and there’s a pause. He seems to admire it, the complex Celtic patterns weaving over the silvery tight fit in grooves. Siebren sighs with a small smile, running a finger down her forearm.

“My moon,” he coos, “glowing pale and soft.”

“Lunatic,” she says, quietly-- It isn’t lost on her. He laughs, shaking his frame, and her in his lap. His hands mould her thighs in them, almost ponderingly, stoking the burning _ want _ in her. “You’re overdressed,” she hisses, tugging at the straps of the harness that circle his hips and legs. Siebren lies back down, their hands working in tandem to undress him the same way they did for her. Somehow, it doesn’t quite feel as though the yawning imbalance has been redressed.

Without the layers of plate and heavy ballistic-proof fabric, however-- She can see that she’s not the only one dizzyingly aroused. He strains against his grey briefs, a _ prodigious _ bulge throbbing hot against her thigh. For a long moment, the two take their time drinking in the sight of the other’s body, an odd calm settling briefly between them that brims with _ something _ she cannot name.

Her fingers pluck at his waistband at the same time his palm cups her covered mound, and the heat comes rushing back. Moira growls, snapping the button at her collarbone open, sliding her finger through the magnetic strip that holds the front of her suit closed. She watches his eyes darken, his lips part, touching his now-bare fingers to the too-pale skin. His touch dances over the dusting of freckles on her neck, over her meagre breasts, and it makes her feel unnervingly _ wanted. _ If he’s noticed how deathly still she’s become, he hasn’t shown it. Siebren continues to gently ease the bodysuit off her shoulders, tracing lines between the discoloured spots in her skin and making her heart beat out of time.

(It’s too tender, too _ intimate._)

Moira grinds their centers together, impatiently, snatching up the small victory as he reflexively grips her bony shoulder to ground himself. Allowing him no time to think, her nails rake through his greying hair and clasp the back of his head as she kisses him, rolling her hips once, twice, thrice more.

He is hers. He has to be reminded of this.

Her teeth sink into his bottom lip as she draws back, nearly tearing her arms out of their sleeves so she can feel him chest to chest. Moira has never thought herself a soft woman; far from it, but pressed against the hard muscle of his pectorals, she’s dimly surprised at how much she wants to lay her full weight against him, to let him support her. But that isn’t what this is; that isn’t what _ they are_. Siebren’s skin feels like a white-hot brand, palming over hers as he touches her lower back, the tight and soft halves of her ass, and it chokes a groan from her throat. He doesn’t smile, doesn’t chuckle, only answers with his own mirroring noise of desire, slipping one hand around her front to thumb between her lips.

The contact is electric. Moira’s hips jump forward, her slick folds sliding against the calloused knob of his knuckle. He reaches further, letting her grind against his digit while the wide pad of his thumb rubs teasingly at her entrance.

“_Voortreffelijk_. You feel _ amazing_, Moira,” he breathes, his approval humming from his chest into her jaw. _ His hand is so large _ , she finds herself thinking, looking at the way his fingers stretch past her navel and the way the slight pouch of her belly sits in his palm. She fights off the thought that wants desperately for him to take her-- _ she is in control _. Her anger wells up again, at his daring. Touching her without her permission, without even getting his cock out. Moira delves into the slit sitting over his bulge, wrapping a firm hand around his girth and pulling him out none-too-gently.

He shouts at the touch, his fingers digging into her buttock as he bucks. The movement jolts the both of them, knocking her off balance and leaving her lying against his chest.

“Let me, Moira, let me--” he begs, thrusting against her palm with his fingers playing maddeningly at her slit. Every brush of his fingers against her saps her strength, leaving her breathless, but she pushes herself up on one hand, glaring imperiously down at him. The other squeezes his head in a warning and a promise, before she lifts her hips and pushes her suit down-- _ thank God for its elasticity _\-- to seat herself on his cock.

_ Fuck_; he’s bigger than she was ready for, and the stretch is so _ bright_, bordering on the edge of unbearable. Siebren, to his credit, groans deeply but doesn’t thrust. He strokes his trembling hands over her hips and thighs instead, taking shaking, steadying breaths. Moira braces her hands beside his head, head dipped between her shoulders and panting. Her thighs are flexed tight, holding herself up from taking him fully, twitching with the effort.

“It’ll be alright soon, just-- relax. Don’t force it--”

“_Shut up _ ,” she snaps, rolling her hips down once. The sting lessens, a deep pleasure blooming where his cock brushed against that spot deep in her that leaves her shuddering. Siebren gnaws at his lip, still holding himself back. _ Good. Let him learn. _

His thumb comes back between her swollen lips, rubbing gently beside her hood, and she nearly whimpers.

“You’ll do as _ I _ say, Sigma,” Moira says in a snarl, fixing her eyes on his half-lidded ones, clenching around him. He groans deep in his chest, the sound felt even where they’re joined. Blessedly, he’s run out of retorts, nodding and laying back. She rides him for a few strokes, in shallow movements that let her adjust to him. Siebren pants raggedly, eyes fixed on her face. Moira commands him to touch her, though there’s less ice in her voice than she intends.

“_No,"_ she barks when he reaches between her thighs. His hand stutters, then touches almost shyly under her breasts. She finds it ludicrous; all his previous impetuousness has suddenly disappeared, but she cannot find it in her to complain. This is what she wants, after all. “Higher,” Moira breathes, and his hot, hot palm covers her breasts in alternating turns. He doesn’t grab or squeeze like she expects, merely cups them and thumbs over her tightened nipples, sending sparks down her front. She lets him have a pleased moan, raising herself almost all the way off his length then plunging back down.

“See how much _ easier _ and happier everything is when you just _ listen to me, _ Sigma?”

Her pace quickens, now, grinding hard circles against his pelvis. The rasp of cloth on cloth and the wet noise of their joining fills the room, barely audible over their breaths and sighs. Every lewd note of their rutting makes her burn hotter. Moira bends over him to steal the breath from his mouth, delighting in the desperate slide of his tongue against hers. She has him on the back foot now, and she won’t let her edge slip from her ever again.

“Mine,” she hisses lowly, “_mine._”

“_Nnh-- _ You have to get off _ . _ I’m-- _ God--_”

Moira pulls off of him right as he comes, _ without her permission. _ She frowns down at the mess he’s made of his quivering stomach, and how she’ll have to clean his semen off of his wounds now, too.

“We have to teach you restraint, Sigma. You can’t be off doing whatever you please,” she says clinically, ignoring the tremble in her voice. He opens his watery eyes to look up at her, chest heaving with exertion and pain. Moira shifts up his body, hooking one ankle over his shoulder and lowering her cunt to his mouth.

“Now, finish me. You shouldn’t leave anything undone.”

He laps clumsily at her, sucking on both her folds and the nanofiber, his tongue diving forward hungrily to taste her heady slick. Moira throws her head back and croons, high off his submission and the light suckle on her clit, petting his hair with her nails. She comes with a hitch in her breath, then a long sigh. Sigma’s mouth leaves her with a lingering, wet kiss, and he lies back against the table with a small, pleased smile across his face.

Moira scowls witheringly at him.

“You’ll learn, yet.”

“I’m yours to teach, Doctor.”


End file.
